Aliana's Spawn
by Late to the Party
Summary: Gorion failed. Aliana lived. Her child lived. Now the day of reckoning has arrived, and with it, vengeance. AU.
1. I

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the names, characters, setting contained within. Bioware/Black Isle/Interplay does.

I

The Iron Crisis. Its plague that swept the Sword Coast four years ago. Rieltar Anchev, leader of the Iron Throne, defeated the Merchant League, and seized all monopolies within the city of Baldur's Gate. Providing the city with 'acquired' iron reserves, stockpiled and sold at premium prices, the Iron Throne knew wealth beyond measure. Quickly silencing their Zhentish rivals, they bought the services of mercenaries and formed a private mercantile army.

Expansion to Athkatla swiftly followed. All shipping, all caravans are controlled by one man. With more power than the Grand Dukes and Athkatla's Council, it was not long before an assassin breeched Anchev's inner circle. Outrage followed. It did not take long for an agreement to be struck with Athkatla's infamous 'Shadow Thieves'. The 'shadow master', Aran Linvail, was not without his own problems.

Irenicus. Outcast elf and mage extraordinaire. Kidnapper. Tormenter. Murderer. Brother of Bodhi.

Bodhi. Terror of the Night, mistress to a coven of vampires.

The guild war, as it became known, raged. As the thieves slowly gave ground to the night hunters, a single confrontation changed the face of the conflict forever. The Cowled Wizards, Athkatla's authorised mages, were forced to step in, but were unable to contain Irenicus. Breaking free of their hold, his presence tipped the balance in the vampires' favour. The reports Irenicus, then unknown in name, cared nothing for such trivialities were contradicted by the fury of his magical barrage. Renewed, intensified, the Cowled Wizards were forced to ally with the Shadow Thieves, and Athkatla's Council was obliged to plead Anchev for aid.

None was forthcoming.

Under Bodhi, the city lay in ruins. The Iron Throne withdrew and Athkatla, jewel of Amn, was shattered. Amnish might failed.

Amidst the shattered stones and burnt out buildings, vampires prowled. Irenicus resumed his experiments.

Candlekeep. Home of the sage Gorion and his wards, Sarevok and Imoen. Spared from the Iron Crisis, events further south passed them by. Sheltered, for a time.

Saradush. Two years ago…


	2. II

II

The might of Abazigal poured across the land. His son, the mage Draconis, warlord of the Blue Host, led a contingent against Saradush. Wyverns numbered among the mercenaries, and supported with Earth Elementals, they surrounded the city and advanced. Summoned by wizardry, the Elementals wreaked havoc before the defenders banished them to their home plane. Despite all odds, for six months, the city held. On the seventh, it surrendered. The very next day the city was relieved.

By then it was too late.

Draconis, son of Abazigal sacked Saradush, gutting it from the innards to the bowels. All were put to the sword. Outside, the forces of Yaga-Shura, supposed allies and part of 'The Four' arrived mere hours ahead of the relief force. As the two formed up, the royal army of Tethyr stormed the besiegers.

During the course of the battle, the tide turned in favour of Yaga-Shura, and sensing an opportunity, though heavily outnumbered, Draconis betrayed his ally. Shedding his human guise, the young blue dragon struck at Yaga-Shura's exposed flank. Made up of fire giants, human fodder and a scant few mages, the relief found itself battling on two fronts. The warlords met in battle, the dragon almost as tall as Yaga-Shura the fire giant. Armed with magic and claws, Draconis spat lightning, tail sweeping all aside, wings driving all but the strongest to their knees.

Wyverns and mages held off Yaga-Shura's giants, and their general roared his defiance. Yaga-Shura's defences held, and his mighty hammer crackled against Draconis' wards. For minutes, they stood battering one another; raw strength over technique. Serpentine neck arcing forwards, the dragon bit down; the hammer pounded against Draconis' sleek body. Neither connected, magical protections frustrating them. Hissing breeching spells, the blue roared in triumph as his sorcery stripped the fire giant's defences. He moved in for the kill, and his elation turned to terror as the grievous wounds his claws inflicted regenerated instantly. Bellowing laughter, Yaga-Shura crushed the dragon's wing, finally penetrating his rival's wards.

As the dragon lay helpless in the dirt, glaring up balefully, Yaga-Shura raised his hammer. As it fell, Draconis uttered a death curse.

Seeing the fall of their foe's leader, the royal army rallied and swarmed over the fire giant's host.

From her bastion, Aliana watched. Her son laid the dagger beside the Fire Giant's heart. In the silver bowl, the coals cooled.


	3. III

III

Candlekeep. Present day.

"Father, where are we going?" The young man's deep voice rumbled. He was dressed in long grey robes, and his eyes were golden.

"You must learn to be patient child," the old man answered with a weariness age alone did not bring, "Everything will be explained in due time."

His ward bowed his head.

Gorion sighed, "I cannot tell you, for I have not truly decided."

—

The waters stilled. From across the fount, Aliana waited as her son met her dark eyes. Tempered anticipation, nurtured and hungry, waited for her word. She did not quite smile. Soon, she promised silently. Her son stared back into the pool.

—

Sendai screamed. Pitiful and terrible, they echoed on and on. Pain was all she knew. Under the tentacle rods of her 'mother's' allies, Lloth's handmaiden, each touch tore at her, flaying her from the inside out, numbing her. As black descended, she felt her sire's essence, raw and near, and this time, she reached out and grasped it.

"Well?" Ardulace demanded.

"She is ready, Matron."

"Prepare the eggs. And summon Irenicus."

—

Illasera screamed. Gromnir grunted. Bodhi danced, prancing from one foot to the other, watching them through the bars. She baited them with looks, with demure laughter. Demure, demented laughter. She taunted them with words.

"There, it is done." There was a note of satisfaction in Irenicus' otherwise dead tone. "You may have them now, sister."

"Here, mousey-mousey," the vampiress leaned closer, poking through the cage. Half starved and dead inside, the half orc Gromnir stared blankly at her. "You broke them!" She accused, as she turned to see the same vacant expression in Illasera's eyes.

"Come, it is time we took our revenge."

Bodhi sighed, then danced after her striding brother; blue-white symbols formed in the air. A moment later, she vanished through the portal he had made with him.

—

Amelyssan stood before Balthazar. Sat on his knees, the monk stared calmly back at her. "That idiot Yaga-Shura is two years dead, and our _ally_ Abazigal roams the land while you do nothing. What have you to show? Where is your army?"

His brown eyes were as cold as hers.

"Don't even think of betraying me!" Sweeping her shawl around her, she hissed, "We have come too far for that now. You'll never find the rest of the Children without me." Turning on her heel, she froze, "Wait. Something isn't…"

Balthazar said nothing.

—

"Welp, I guess this is goodbye for now," Imoen smiled at Sarevok, "I guess I'll miss you an' all, but…"

The young man did not reply.

"Well, look after yeself, an' don't be a bufflehead. Write me!"

—

Aliana's son nodded to himself. _Now_.


	4. IV

IV

He cowered before him, the 'paladin'. The city of Baldur's Gate was rife with crime. Childless Anchev pulled out after Athkatla was destroyed; backed by the nearby town of Trademeet, Amn sent an army to reclaim its prize. It was routed to a man. The refugees from the guild war fled in every direction; many flooded the mining outpost of Nashkel, then fled further north to Beregost and Baldur's Gate. Beregost, an insignificant speck on the map, had been overwhelmed and even after order had been re-established, the town was never the same again. It was in this flood of immigrants that he had found him, 'the paladin'. Pitiful, contemptible, he had stalked him to Baldur's Gate where he watched.

The paladin had begun a search, scouring the taverns. The object of his search? Viekang, he confessed. Alone in an upstairs room, his armour beside his bed, his sword out of reach, and his dagger under his pillow. In his nightshirt, he squirmed. Guided by the sword's tip, the paladin backed into the corner, his bare legs trembling. Tears filled his eyes.

"Mercy!"

The sword's tip slid under the paladin's chin; Aliana's son wiped it clean in one deft cut and returned it to its scabbard. Before the golden dust faded, white-blue symbols appeared in the air, and then he was gone.


	5. V

V

From afar, he watched. A pair of half elves, warriors both of them; a white-haired man in grey, a young woman in pink. A child, clueless, naïve, dangerous. Imoen. His eyes strayed to the cowled figure. Gorion… the name had been seared onto his heart; his lips remained still. Once they would have twisted. Betrayer. Betrayal. Unbidden memories arose, as if seeing a dream through another's eyes. A temple…

Screaming. Blood. His mother's face flashed before his eyes. Hatred twisting her features, smooth, fair. The flash of knives. The smell. Burning. Cold, grey stone. Blood. So much blood. A skull; a tugging within, coursing through him, calling, singing… the song of power, the fire that lit his veins. The pounding, pulsing…

Lightning. Steel against steel. Too young to understand, too young to know… the vision of his mother's face, the reflection in her eyes.

He did not cry out.

The waking dream faded. Dazed, he stared towards the travellers from his place in the trees.

It was not time yet.


	6. VI

VI

"Ye bumbling oaf!"

Fumbling, Sarevok dropped his book; shaking himself, the young man stooped and straightened both himself and the book. Slowly, he turned to face his accuser.

"I told ye to get in there and clear them rats out!"

The angry dwarf glared up at him.

Ignoring the stick waved at the level of his kneecaps, Sarevok's face was the very picture of calm. It infuriated Reevor.

"Now get in there!"

"I am a scholar," he tried to explain patiently for the ninth time in two days.

"Yer a good fer nothing slacker is what ye are!"

"My studies call."

Sarevok did not flinch as the stick struck his thigh.

"I'll not ferget this! First that girl goes, an' now this! Desertion an' insurrection! Black mutiny! I'll have ye hanged!"

His long-legged stride could only carry him so fast, his green robes sweeping at his ankles; he exercised the stillness demanded from his meditations. A torrent of curses followed him. Dusk's sun set the grounds ablaze with vibrant orange. The vast library held many halls, and Sarevok found a quiet corner to his liking. The candles had burned low before he finally retired.

In the stone cell Sarevok called home, his brother waited for him.

Stood, robed in grey, cowl lowered, he wore the guise of a monk. Concealed beneath the black tunic and trousers he veiled himself with were the last thing anyone would expect. The guards of the Watch had not seen him, evaded as effortless as the walls he scaled.

"May I help you?" Sarevok's deep voice rumbled from the doorway.

Back towards his brother, he looked out the window. Finally, he turned, studying him. At least a head and a half taller than himself, the man was lean without being stocky, the result of youth and a lifetime of books. Twisting the long knife his hands rested over, his right slid from pommel to grip. Tucked into the long sleeve, Sarevok was never the wiser.

"I do not believe I recognise you…" The golden gaze ran over his pale features.

"Brother."

"Brother…? I have no brothers…" Confusion played momentarily, "You must have me mistaken."

"There is no mistake." Slowly, he allowed his own gaze to search the young man's troubled look.

"I ask that you leave."

"I have a message for your father."

"He isn't here." Hesitation proved fatal; caught between calling the guards and curiosity, Sarevok wavered. "Who are you? How did you get here?"

"You do not remember me, but I remember your father." He made to leave.

"Perhaps I could deliver it to him upon his return?"

There was less than a foot between them; uncertainty was met with swift, decisive, precision. The knife ripped through cloth and flesh alike, the single heart-thrust twisting in. Sarevok gasped, eyes bulged; a sharp tug saw him sinking to his knees, hands clutching at the blade that killed him. His mouth worked uselessly.

"Tell him I am coming."

Knowledge was power. Ignorance was death. Soundlessly, the assassin stole away.


	7. VII

VII

Bubbles. Apparatus. Flame. The iron pot's underbelly licked red; the contents of its innards broiled. The alcohol was pungent, pure. It rose, filling the glass tube above it. There it cooled, condensing. Potency increased with each cycle; it was very potent now.

Berries, once red, stewed. Leaves, once green, crushed. Seeds burst. The mortar pounded the pestle.

There were many venoms. Many poisons. Belladonna, so common, stood liquefied in vials; the asp's sting laced his blade. A dagger imbued for one purpose, sealed with magic.

He studied the process dispassionately.

Silver dripped, coating steel. The forge's fire roared, stirred by bellows. Twin golems awaited his command. Granite faces regarded him without expression; emeralds he set as eyes. Magic's fire glowed within, the heartstone not anatomically correct. Over their shoulders he draped quilted linen, then encased them in steel. At first, he believed it would be too heavy, but the mail of the elves was feather-light, resilient. They towered over him, these constructs, standing half the height of giants. Shields served as pauldrons, kited, embossed. The breastplates bespoke enchantment, powerful, absorbing blows, leeching the life of those that struck them. Bucklers bedecked each vambrace, a sword protruding from each. Fists gripped axes, crescent bladed, spiked at the base and head. Lightning crackled soundlessly about them, and they moved with its speed. The final incantation saw their flesh bewitched with the permanence of stone, the runic circle flaring red. He had given something of himself to shape these; he saw through their eyes.

They were ready.

The sword awaited. Tempered, quenched, folded, runed. Imbued with the essence of a dead god, drawn from the slain, forged from Spawndust, bathed in blood. Runic script glowed once, briefly; gently, he lifted it from the grill, naked against his palms. A single word, and the blade separated into two. The same sword, twinned. Another syllable, and it fused together, seamless. The magic. As one, it held two edges; apart, each but one. Straight, true, and sheathed in venom. He slid the blade home; it dropped neatly into his shoulder-scabbard. Wrought in power, worthy of a god.

It deserved a name.

Names were meaningless.

From afar, Aliana watched, pleased.

Blue-white encased him.


	8. VIII

VIII

That night, the dreams came.

An image of beauty, of perfection. A woman sheathed in light, gold crowning her head, impossibly fragile wings. Blue radiated from her; her eyes silver stars.

"What do you want?" Flatly, but not unkindly; the dreamer was aware of the dream.

"I greet you, godchild."

He waited. Manners were reserved for those deserving, Mother had taught, not for mystery stalkers in the night.

"You stand a crossroads."

It was always the same. He should have told Mother, but something prompted his silence. A dire warning was about to follow.

"Events draw to a close."

He never bothered asking why she was here. Celestial visitations were to be expected, but Mother taught him the gods were forbidden from interfering…

"But a few remain."

Her words were music, the language of the gods.

"Are you prepared, godchild?" Eyes bored into him, searching, as if to hold up a mirror.

"Are they?"

"You are the coming wrath," she acknowledged, "born of murder, the darkness within you is terrible."

Always she stated the obvious. Spiteful remarks never passed his mind; he knew her for what she was: his conscience, the stand in. As if 'innocence' could take hold here, in the dreams. There were no innocents, only victims. Even the gods were victims. But it was better to be a victim with power than one without.

"How long until you are consumed?"

"Get out of my way, Solar."

Dark laughter filled the dream, laughter not his own. The Solar looked on sadly.

Memorises arose unbidden; the voices of the slain filled him. Pounding blood, the throb of life, the veil's edge. The ecstasy of murder. The heightened thrill that always tempted him, that he ignored. Here, in this sanctum of invaded privacy, his thoughts cut like a lash. Irrationally, he turned and faced the darkness, "I am not your slave. Or yours," he whirled on the solar, his voice ice, "we are all death's children."

Abruptly, he reached for his sword; even in the dream, it was present, part of himself taken physical form. "Whatever your purpose here, I have mine. 'Destined'. Your gods did this to me."

Again the laughter.

"You are a child of pro–"

"In a bardic myth, you're my 'fairy godmother' come to guide me. Whatever you are, I don't need you. Dreams hold no power. None of this is real."

"Yet." Murder's shade whispered.

"I deny you. I deny all of you."

"But the consequences are so very real."

"Begone, wraith!"

The voice haunted, chilling him, "As long as you live…"

"Enough," the Solar put a stop to the darkness' words, but the fading laughter echoed. "Your path is before you, godchild."

"Then trouble me no more." Sweeping the realm with once glance, he rebuked himself. Acknowledging the figments ceased their chatter sooner than not, but in doing so, he stepped closer to the madness. He banished the dream.


	9. IX

IX

Suldenesslar burned. Death stalked its streets. The once great tree city of the elves, their bastion and home for countless centuries, reduced to a desolate wasteland in less than a month. The ancient wards failed, brought down by one who helped strengthen them: Irenicus. Flanking him, Bodhi danced, shifting from foot to foot, gloating. He ignored her, his bright blue eyes showing nothing. His home burnt and he felt nothing.

"It's done." Coming to his side, a tall drow woman regarded him coolly.

Bodhi hissed, her fangs glistening.

"Enough," Irenicus' voice was colder than her bloodless veins, colder than the tomb, "Your reward." There was not even a hint of the sardonic. A wave of his hand, a few muttered syllables and two cages appeared before the drow.

Empty stared, Gromnir and Illasera stood before Sendai.

"I have no more use for them."

"What have you done?" Sendai demanded, hands fidgeting over twin sword hilts.

"Nothing more than was needed." He spoke to her as a child. Bodhi's eyes were alight with anticipation.

"If you betray–"

"I care nothing for you, your petty squabbling." Drawing himself up, Irenicus added, "Where is she?"

"At the Tree." Cautiously, Sendai's eyes momentarily left Bodhi's. In the distance, her army sacked the elven city; their infernal allies had since returned to the hells. Irenicus had no more use for them.

"Good." Blue-white encircled him, and he winked out of existence.

"Now mousey-mousey, you are here with me," Bodhi licked one fang, "and brother dearest has no further purpose for you."

Sendai's cry died in her throat; Bodhi clamped a hand over her mouth, "Shh," she breathed, "Can you taste it? Life." Like a viper, the vampiress' tongue flicked to taste the air, hovering over the drow's cheek, "you taste delicious."

Sendai's blades flicked out.

—

"Joneleth…"

"Ellesime."

"You have returned; has your lust for revenge been sated? Have you learned nothing?"

"No more words. My ascension is at hand."

"Our gods will never allow this blasphemy!"

"Then the Tree will be struck down."


	10. X

X

"So, this is the Friendly Arm Inn? Doesn't look like much." Imoen looked around and wrinkled her nose, "Reminds me of home."

"Child," Gorion began tiredly, ignoring Jaheria's hardening look.

"Smells like it too." She sighed loudly, and flopped onto a rickety stool, "I'm hungry." The girl announced, glancing around for any persons of interest. She wasn't disappointed.

"Imoen," Jaheria intervened, "shall we see if the bathes are ready?"

Gorion shot her a grateful smile.

"Y-You're not," Khalid offered quietly from the side as Imoen darted up the stairs, Jaheira trying to rein her in.

Chuckling Gorion wondered, "Am I that obvious?"

"Y-you're no older than when we last v-visited."

"I feel it. Did I make the right choice?"

"It is u-unlike you to question y-yourself, my friend."

"You're right. Still…"

"L-let's get a drink."

There was a low crash; Gorion groaned silently. Khalid winced in sympathy and clapped his old mentor's shoulder.

"J-Jaheira will s-set her straight. You'll see."

There was another crash.

Prudently, Khalid led him to a table and signalled the tavern wench for ale. Gorion buried his face in his hands. He should have taken a more active role in her upbringing, but not everybody was cut out for a life of solace, contemplation and study, least of all a young girl…

"Imoen!" Jaheria's voice cut through the floorboards above them.

"What? He tried to peek! Dirty, perverted old gnome!"

At least, Gorion decided, Imoen's idioms were better since he had taken to tutoring her in the Art…

In an unobtrusive corner, a young man twitched as he raised his ale.


	11. XI

XI

"Die!" Roared the blue, lightning coursing from his maw. Claws extended, they crackled with power, raw, elemental, blinding forks arcing and frying any who strayed too close.

Inside the monastery, Balthazar waited. Two years he had waited for this day; his entire life time spent preparing. The building trembled but the wards held. Carved from rock, set high above the desert town of Amkethran, the ramp leading up had collapsed; ringed by the draconic horde, the order elite and mercenaries rained sheets of broadheads and bolts dipped in poison. The defending mages and clerics countered and dispelled their rivals' magicks, occasionally throwing their own at the seething mass below, which in turn was countered and shielded. Back and forth the magic raged, but that was only the backdrop to the true battle.

Wyverns fell in droves; eyes punctured by the diminishing arrow storm. Tens of thousands of bolts, hundreds of thousands of arrows; composite desert riding bows, longbows and repeating crossbows. Enchanted ballistae, firepot launching catapults. A lifetime of stockpiling.

Abazigal burst through the sandstone wall, the upper stories shredded by a host of mighty claws; the dragon shoved the smaller dragonkin aside, several of them falling to the desert sands below, wings and bodies broken. The monk elite charged with halberds, jian, meteor hammers, twin sais, and daos. A host of weaponry for a host of scales. Swooping, Abazigal swept all aside, making for the dais.

Time seemed to stop.

Balthazar blurred, as if shedding mortal flesh and half phasing to a being of light. Faster than his followers' eyes could track, his limbs, like tempered steel, flexed and struck. A thousand times they struck. Dragonscale, harder than iron, pummelled as a blacksmith's hammer. No finesse, no grace, only raw strength and technique. Hands as claws, palms and fist, gripping, ripping, cutting, pounding. Fingertips as diamond, hands' edge as blades, he was the living weapon. Elbow and forearm intermixed, a serpent's lunge, a spiral lance, twisting, tearing, bleeding from razored scales. Then he broke through the draconic mail; off came the kite-shaped plates. He did not kick, he did not need to. Electric breath, the dragon's wrath, discharged, but the other took it; a speeding arrow seemed slow by comparison.

Abazigal roared, for the first time, pain entering his rage. His head swept this way and that; his claws lashed wildly. His tail smashed through empty air, shattering the dais. Balthazar was in his element. Pure, determined, fearless focus. His eyes glowed like the Solar, pinpricked stars, divine essence coursing through him. Harnessed, channelled, he brought murder's touch to dragonflesh; his fist plunged through shredded scale, opening inside. Abazigal screamed. Desperately he thrashed, unable to escape. Each swing had been sidestepped, each sweep jumped over; his magics interrupted, his concentration shattered. Balthazar's hand found the dragon's heart; their sire's power glowed crimson.

Abazigal reared, shook, and collapsed, his legs unable to hold him, his life-organ sundered.

Balthazar fell back, breathing heavily. His body smouldered, smoke rose from him. Drawing in on himself, he unleashed the power he had mastered. White encased him and through the pain few mortals could stand, his wounds began to heal.

Golden dust choked the room; in its maelstrom Balthazar sat, drawing it into himself. Panic spread through the draconic ranks. The battle was over.


	12. XII

XII

"You are nothing; you are less than nothing!"

"Stop this madness! Can't you see what you've become?"

"You did this to me!"

"You did this to yourself!"

Ellesime wove the Tree's power around herself; Irenicus' magics shattered against it. Each spell, so deadly, was gradually bombarding her defences to nothing. With each spell, a little more of the Tree died.

The cage had burst open, the elven gods empowering their champion. Bound to the Tree, Ellesime stood as guardian; bound to the Tree, the elf queen was surely dying. Now the former lovers exchanged words arcane and mundane, invoking all they had for this sole moment, a moment he had yearned for. The time of revenge was at hand.

"And I will have it!" the mage roared.

"You will have nothing!" Ellesime cried, "Would that you had used your years–"

"Silence! You took that from me! You took _all_ from me!"

"Why did you not ask, Joneleth? Why could you not have admitted you were wrong?"

"I was _right_! I had the right! And you, my love, you stood in my path! For years I clung to the memory, then the memory of the memory, seeking to create, to rekindle something of our love, but it is gone!"

"And I pity you!"

He unleashed another devastating barrage; slowly forcing her back, he was a torrent of power, a consuming storm.

"I do not need your pity!"

"You have already taken everything from me, Joneleth! Must this madness continue?"

"Everything Ellesime? I have only begun!"

"Then we will both die!"

"No, my love, _I_ shall ascend!"

"No, Joneleth, you will _not_! Can't you feel it? Even now the Tree is _dying_! You are _killing_ her!"

Raw fire flung from his fingers scorched the bough beneath her feet; it was extinguished, "Then your gods shall suffer as I have suffered."

"Will nothing dissuade you?"

"No, my love, it is too late for that. Once, perhaps, but that is gone. The man you knew is _dead_."

"Then I have done a great wrong." She let the tattered remnants of the shield fall away, and she faced him without wards. "Have your revenge, Joneleth, take my life. I cannot abide this madness. My city is ruined, our people are dead. Does it mean nothing to you?"

Towering over her, he took a menacing step closer, gathering his magical energies. "I look at this and feel nothing. I look at you and feel _nothing_."

"Joneleth…" She reached out her hand; her fingers touched empty air and then his mask brushed their tips.

"Farewell, my love." The last word was edged with bitterness.

"Mercy," she pleaded, not for herself.

The mage froze, arm drawn back to deliver the death blow. Something deep within gripped him, something lost, forgotten. "Where was _your_ mercy?" His commanding tones all but snarled, each word punctuated, each word pronounced.

"You are better than this… something in you…" Unwilling to accept the truth, she took his mask in both hands, thumbs caressing the crinkled leather.

"Is dead. The man you knew is dead."

"It is not too late; I will plead for you, we can start together anew."

"A hopeless dream, Ellesime." Only ice held his words now. "Let this end."

"For years I waited, hoping, dreaming, praying you would return. From the moment you left… I am sorry, sorry I turned my back on you. I was wrong. You were right; oh my Joneleth, you were right."

"No Ellesime," His voice was heavy, the weight of a lifetime carried in those few syllables, "I was not."

She stared at him, crazed hope in her eyes.

For a split second, he wavered, caught between ambition and life. He poured his power into the Tree, shattering it from its core; the trunk splintered, sap boiled. Blinding light became her world, rending her to her very soul. When the haze cleared, there was nothing left of it, of him.

"Joneleth!" she screamed.

Her screams went on and on. She read his final look: it was she who would live a mortal life, stripped of all hope; this, his last gift, to deny the Drow the Tree of Life, his sacrifice, his ambition. Revenge was all he had left, revenge in place of hope; his revenge was to leave her soul intact, her heart without hope.

The great tree city of the elves fell, the forest collapsing under the broken trunks weight. Ellesime tumbled with it, forsaken by her gods. This time, she had chosen love over their will. This time, she paid for her mistakes. There was no forgiveness, only vengeance.


	13. XIII

XIII

The shortsword pierced the body. Sendai glanced up with distaste; knees to her chin, back against a tree, Ellesime watched in horror. _Joneleth…_

Striding over to the fallen queen, the left blade's tip forced her head up. Sheathed in black, her skin as coal, crimson eyes regarded the elf. Contempt met anguish; Ellesime brown glistening with grief. Fire lit her, and even at Sendai's mercy, a hint of her former pride remained. There was nothing left in her, nothing but raw grief.

No words passed between them. Pulling back her right, the drow struck. Pommel caught temple. "For Matron Ardulace," she uttered sardonically.

–

It was dark when Ellesime came to. The sky above was clouded; branches? She could see stars, thank the gods, but something darker lurked, something closer…

"Hello, queenie-mousey," Bodhi's face appeared out of nowhere, as pallid as Sendai's was dark. She licked her washed out, blood stained lips.

Unable to control herself, Ellesime shrank back in revulsion.

"Don't be like that," the vampiress taunted, "it's been so long!"

"Joneleth…"

She shrugged, her long limbs swaying easily, "he'll be back. The dead usually are." She laughed without mirth, "He tasted… empty."

"You found him? Alive? But the drow…"

"He wished he wasn't." Another lick of her lips, and she leaned in close, "but now our conversation draws to a close. The blood of the godspawn tastes so exquisite…"

"No…" Her eyes widened as she realised her former subject's intent.

The predator of mortals moved more quickly than the scrabbling elf; her fangs sank in and drank.

–

Days later, Ellesime awoke. Bodhi stood over her, "You must be hungry. Go find me a tasty treat."

"Yes, my mistress."


	14. XIV

XIV

"So what's your name?" Imoen plonked herself down on the rickety stool. She had begun with her usual, 'Heya, I'm Imoen', but all it had got her was hesitation. Old stuffy boots was too busy with Khalid at the bar, and Jaheria was off being all nature-y.

The young man hid behind his tankard. He had nice eyes, she decided, brown like hers, and an adorable quiff, hidden behind that hood of his. Pity about the pimple.

"Aw, don't be like that." Making a show of glancing around, she leaned in conspiratorially, "You see anyone here our age? We're the only two! The rest are all fuddy-duddies."

Finally, the young man looked over the tankard's rim, "You – you're not here to kill me?"

"Kill you?" Imoen looked at him as if he'd gone crazy, "Why'd I want to do that? 'Sides, place's full o' guards. Naw, I just wanna talk, y'know, like real adventurers in a tavern, tradin' tales o' battle an' stuff. Um, so where're you from?"

"Nowhere in particular…"

"So that means you must've seen tons of stuff! Good on you!" She noticed his mug was barely touched, "Say, you hungry?" Another glance at the bar told her Gorion was keeping an eye on her; she rolled her own. "Never any fun…"

"Viekang."

"Huh?"

"My name."

"Well, pleased ta meet ya!" Thrusting out a hand, her beaming smile was finally rewarded. Gingerly, he took it; she shook firmly. "So, why'd ye think I was gonna kill ya?"

"Imoen," Jaheria's voice rang out across the room.

"Oh gods, not again…" Making a face, Imoen ducked down beside him, "Don't tell, okay? I don't want to tidy my bedroll anymore. She'll probably make me get some stinky herbs or something."

Bemused, Viekang nodded.

"Doesn't even care everybody can hear her…"

Determined, Jaheria marched over to Gorion, "Have you seen her?"

Imoen was shaking her head plaintively.

"Damnit!" Imoen swore as her mentor's eyebrow lifted her way. "Quick! Help me hide." She crawled under the table, "Cover for me."

Jaheria was a force of nature; she glared down at the young man. "Do you know where she is?"

Quaking in his boots, he shook his head.

"Don't lie to me, boy."

"She left." He stammered.

She fixed him a penetrating stare, then turned and started searching the nearby tables. After several minutes, Imoen let out a low breath, "I thought I was a gonna. Hey, thanks. Um, you wanna go somewhere quieter to talk, like the stables maybe? Or upstairs."

Viekang turned a shade of pale that made sheets look stained (although, Imoen decided, most of them were. Eww.).

"Just upstairs, there's a fire a couch, a rotten ol' gnome… pleeease?" Winsomely, she smiled. "Com'on, it's just little ol' me."

"Promise not to kill me?"

"Word of honour." She saluted smartly, cursed and ducked. "Hey listen, I'm gonna go – you join me if ya want, but I ain't beatin' out more bedrolls." Her smile turned coy, "You're kinda cute all jittery like that."

Then she was gone.

Several minutes later, Viekang followed. Against his better judgement. She couldn't possibly be a Bhaalspawn… could she? It had to be a trap. His fingers shook as he fingered his dagger. Then he saw her beaming face and felt ashamed. He realised they were alone. Fear began to grip him. Somehow, she had purloined a bottle of wine. She waved him over. For the first time in months, he felt the beginnings of a smile touch his face.


	15. XV

XV

"Why do you wait?"

Aliana regarded her son coolly, her green eyes hard. He stood before her, arrayed for war, frustration etched on his pale features. Her mirror-likeness.

"You know where he is."

He did not acknowledge his failure, his arrival too late to slay the drow. The might of Suldanessellar fell and in the chaos, he stalked the forest. Infernal hordes against the elven host; drow and demon, fey and elf. Spirits of the forest, terrors of the hells. All were meaningless. Succubus, incubi; he strode unseen. While battle roared around him, he was still, silent.

Now he returned, empty.

"Go at night," she commanded white-faced, her fury suppressed, "Strike where he does not expect."

Bowing his head, he did not protest.

Some of her ire seemed to fade. "You have done well, but it is not enough. Poison the compound, strike when they are weak. He will meditate to purge himself. That is the time." As an afterthought, she added, "Take the golems. And don't forget your vials."

The last was the only maternal concern he'd hear from her. An assassin could not afford weakness, she drilled him growing up, lashing him with the tentacle-rod she'd taken from a Lolth handmaiden. Failure, she promised, hurt more than this; pain was a means of reminding him what it meant to live. In the grave, there was nothing, only torment greater than this. He endured it, through sobs and screams. Afterwards, she would gather him into her arms, stroking his hair until he was old enough to discard such weakness.

He understood now and accepted. Adjusting his ever-present belt, he gathered the cross-shoulder harness and slipped the vials into them. Aliana handed him the antidote: he swigged it in one.

Vials of poison mist, blinding light and noise, and tucked away, compressed blackpowder. Magical and mundane both. Tightening the straps around his forearm, he checked his sheathes, and walked over to the cauldron. That brew was not ready yet; the poison for the food took the form of a bag of herbs hanging above the fire. He took it. His blades were envenomed, his magics ready. The scrying bowl revealed the monastery's location. He had all he needed.

Cloaked from sight, hidden from magic, he winked out of existence.

The first real challenge had begun.


	16. XVI

XVI

Around him monks lay dying. Nightshade was deadly for a reason. Mixed in were other herbs, mundane enough to bypass magical detection, lethal only when mixed together. The caster failed to detect the poison, failed because of the blade in his gut. He caught the man as he slumped, blood seeping into the mark's robes. It was crude, ill-planned, but his patience had run out. No alarms rang out, no wards were triggered. Had he not been hidden, he might have been a carter, a townsfolk.

The cook turned around, wondering where the mage had gone. A nail in the ribs was his answer.

Killing innocents was not his style. Only the target was meant to die. Mother had made it clear: in no uncertain terms was he to leave the monastery standing. All must perish, including their master. He did not ask why. Why was not only irrelevant, it went against her teachings: never leave an enemy alive. Every trace must go, not just the serpent's head. There could be no witnesses.

This slaughter would announce his presence to the realms.

As the weighty man surged forwards, he caught him and carefully lowered him to the floor. Seeing the big-boned man lying helpless, gaping for air, he felt nothing. His boot ended the man's windpipe, a sharp kick taking him from consciousness. So he hid the body and the monks assigned to carry the cauldron arrived. From the shadows, he watched. They called for the cook, shrugged and carted it out. They were hungry and the man had probably gone to the privy.

In the great hall, the meal was served. Bread and vegetable stew. Well water, not ale, was drunk. It was into the well he dropped the roots of a plant that wiped out an entire village. A plant he knew instinctively by trade. He shaved the bulbs and walked away.

The contents of the pouch bubbled in the stew.

As dusk fell, so did the monks. Instantaneous death was not his plan; poison affected each individual differently and not all would eat the stew, drink the water. With little time before the cook was found, he staged the corpse as having fallen down stairs. The mage was a little trickier; he ended up in a water barrel.

Now he stalked the halls. Balthazar's rooms awaited, warded no doubt.

Guarding the door were two monks. They died instantly. Never knowing the swords that slit their throats, never hearing the syllable that split the sword, they slumped. The banded door remained. Wooden. Up came a vial, jammed into the doorlock; he wheeled aside. All in one easy movement. Thunder. The door burst, splinters flying inwards, the hinges blown off. Smoke rose from the stones; he twisted, rolling two balls in from his sleeves; blinding light, poison mist. He slipped into the chamber.

…There was no-one there.

He spun, and dove from the room; glancing this way and that, he uttered the words to summon the golems; the pair stepped through the portal. Was this a trap? Had he been tricked?

The groans of the dying brought him to awareness. Still cloaked in shadow, he went searching. Heeding his unvoiced mental command, the golems turned the other way, marching on the great hall…


	17. XVII

XVII

Balthazar was a picture of calm. He stood alone in the Suldenessese everglades, beholding the destruction. He had received the challenge. Around him, the great stone heads were silent. His escort waited beyond them; this was sacred ground.

They were the last two. The strongest. The rest had been wiped out, slain in Abazigal's wars. Crushed by Yaga-Shura. Sendai was all that remained. Tonight, it would end. Here with his death. She would be the first to fall this night. His acolytes waited in silence, out of sight. They had prepared the ritual tanto for him, the clerics would set the wards.

The figure that approached him was not Sendai.

A lesser man would roar with fury. His eyes were still, flat. He could sense the wrongness from her. A second shade darted amongst the trees; the first was a lure, a nothing. A projection. He watched. The shade circled him on soundless feet. His hands clawed, his stride lengthening, knees bending. Then, like lightning, the two struck. Her claws sliced him; his caught her wrist. His foot snapped out, cracking rib; her fangs tore into his throat.

Cartilage broke, tendons tore, bone snapped. Palm met glistening fang, tearing it loose; hisses of pain. Knee cracked shin; claws raked his eye. Half blinded, poisoned, his world spun around him. His will overrode the body, a body forged in desert. The living weapon. His body purged the venom she sheathed her claws in. Shadowlike, she blurred, her speed exceeding his. Stronger, she threw herself into the fray; raw strength met disciplined technique. Finally, the huntress met her match.

Deadly grace was not finesse; he flowed as water, she shifted with the night. His foot struck out; she stepped aside; his fist crossed, her claws raked his arm. Spearing her throat, his fingertips punctured flesh. Her fangs crunched down, and she threw him off. They faced each other, hatred meeting calm. They engaged.

Faster than the eye, he spun; faster still, she lunged. His heel left her elbow dangling uselessly; her fangs sunk into his jugular.

She staggered back, then collapsed.

Spearlike, his hand had pierced her heart, a human stake. She broke into dust.

Seconds later, so did he.

From the deep within glades, Ellesime watched. Bodhi's final death was not freedom; it was the beginning of eternal torment.


	18. XVIII

XVIII

Dazed and half dead, Sendai staggered through the forest. Surviving the fall had been the easy part; her battle with Bodhi less so. Thrown far by titanic forces of the detonating Tree of Life, her magics had shielded her. She lost sight of the vampiress; she would deal with that _abomination_ later. How _dare_ such a creature seek to _steal_ her birthright? To siphon her sire's essence?

Irenicus and Bodhi were fools if they thought she would permit them to live. The souls of her kin belonged to her and her alone.

Sticking the traitor's body brought little satisfaction; doing it in front of the elf-bitch brought far more. Lugging the fool was beneath her; there were slaves for that. The males would deliver her prize to the alter, and there she would cut out her still beating heart. But first she would flay the surfacer alive. Ellesime would join the _great_ silver wyrm Adalon in example of all who opposed her; unlike the chained dragon, she would allow the elf to keep her sight. She would bathe herself in their blood. Perhaps she would gain the attention of an Archfiend, or Fallen Solar, a consort for when she ascended. Even if she did not, such an orgy would attract lesser fiends.

She would sacrifice for the glory of Murder, not for the Demonwebs Pits.

Draining dying elves of their life to renew her own did not strike her as ironic in the slightest; the lesser mortals scattered the forest floor, hers for the taking. That she was closer to the vampiress in her heritage and how it manifested never crossed her mind. More pressing matters, such as the frenzied tree spirits and their rotting leafy forms occupied her thoughts. A trail of dead followed her wake; she reached Ellesime in full health, her vigour amplified by the slaughter. Nothing quenched her appetite; only the ecstasy she would feel sacrificing the elf stayed her hand. Gathering her followers, and she set off in search of new prey.

Phaere betrayed her. An ambush. Fifteen warriors against six of hers.

She tore the bitch's heart out pushed it down her throat. So Matron Ardulace had betrayed her; Adalon's eggs weren't enough for the Despana whore. The Matron wanted Lolth's favour enough to steal _her_ dragon from her. Phaere may have acted alone. Seizing an opportunity was expected; Phaere had simply got there first. Phaere's death eliminated her biggest rival – a stroke of fortune. Ardulace would not expect an attack so soon, and with the fall of Despana, Uth Natha would be hers. Then the true slaughter would begin; Suldanessellar's children would be sacrificed in her name. It would not stop there. Uth Natha would be purged. Only the strongest would remain, and then she would fall upon the surface world without mercy. Not just her kin, but everyone would fall to the knife. She would weaken the surface gods and desecrate their temples; their holy places would become obscene mockeries, their alters shrines of sacrifice, their own priests the first to die.

She would sing Murder's song throughout the realms and _all_ would fear her, the new goddess of Murder.

But first she had to escape the glades, find a mortal to restore her.

She never saw the bladesinger's magic coming.


	19. XIX

XIX

"He's gone."

"What do you mean 'gone'?" edged with suspicion, Aliana's gaze criticised him.

He gestured at the scrying bowl; unlike the rest of him, his sword at least was clean. "He wasn't there. I eliminated the monastery for nothing."

His mother's slight frown turned considering, "Not for nothing," fixing her eyes on his, she smiled without warmth, "you have proven yourself."

"Against lesser mortals, Mother, not against my brother."

She did not bother with speculation; both knew if the bowl's waters could not find the mark, it was dead or hidden. Its cost had been a Wish and more than he cared to ask. He already knew her next question; knew how her mind worked. She did not need to ask; he had already scried Balthazar's last location. There he had found the fading embers of black-gold dust. It hadn't made sense. It _felt_ like one of the Children, but the dust tasted _wrong_ somehow. He brought back a sample; wordlessly, he passed it to Mother.

One sniff was all it took; in spite of her iron control, her nose wrinkled. "Vampire dust." A pause so slight, he almost missed it. "She supped on your kin."

Slowly, he nodded and absently adjusted his belt. That explained it. Apologies weren't necessary; dialogue was kept to a minimum, but he had failed. "Forgive me Mother."

She ignored it; both knew he should have seen it for himself. He dared not ask if the ascension rites were prepared; ordinarily, she kept watch over him, but now she had more important matters on her mind.

Hesitation gripped him, a moment of weakness. "Mother?"

Her green eyes bored into him; she might yet take the tentacle-whip to him if pressed far enough.

"Allow me to avenge you."

For a long moment, she considered, then cast tonelessly, "Bathe first." Slowly, she reached to unclasp the silver locket, so vivid against her raven hair. It hung between them outstretched; then he accepted the pendant with the slightest of bows.

"Return to me, my child."

Her gaze held him for but a moment, and then she returned to her work. He went to shed his clothes; the golems had done their task well, so well he reeked of the slain.

Where he was going, he needed no sword. The locket was potent enough.


	20. XX

XX

The warm waters lapped around his chin. Enchanted to remain bloodless, his clothes were but the dead clung to him. He could feel their blood, their fear. Death rested heavy upon him. He could have stripped off his garments, but there was something about fully immersing himself in these, his armour.

Carefully, he set the amulet around his neck. Closing his eyes, he decided for the oldest trick in the book. Raising his still-envenomed dagger, he turned the blade over and examined the point. It would do.

—

The hobgoblin died before its podgy eyes ever widened. Cutting a new smile, the blade that slew the pig-like creature was its own. The mimicked cry of a startled bird, a minor distraction, was enough. Lifting the knife in an easy, long flick and the realms were rid another hobgoblin.

The quiver's contents was what he was after. Three arrows would do.

—

It was dusk when he staggered into the Friendly Arm Inn. Shadow had covered his approach; the gate guards did not care. With such an influx of refugees, security had grown lax. One more hunched over traveller was so commonplace, had he strode in he would have drawn more attention. As it was, when he collapsed in the doorway, having ascended the converted keep's wooden stairs, many thought him just another drunk. Until they saw the arrows protruding from his back…

He had picked his moment well. The scrying bowl revealed all he needed to know. Hiding within the masses, his prey pondered their next move, preparing to brave the migratory hordes of refugees. Although the numbers had dwindled somewhat since Athkatla's destruction, chaos still ravaged the land. Any travel was slow going.

"Somebody fetch a healer!" A not-quite-drunk hollered.

"C-Come quickly!"

He hid his smile as he allowed himself to fall out of consciousness. Never had rough, uneven floorboards felt so good.

"By Silvanus–"

—

"You are fortunate to be alive."

Such a lecture could only come from a woman, and this woman in particular wore a concerned scowl that mixed disapproval with resignation. Brown eyes bored into him; he ignored it. Beneath him, sheets only slighter less coarse than straw, and a mattress only slightly less hard than packed earth supported him. Tightly wrapped blankets bound him.

He tried to rise; she pushed him down. All his strength had fled; the blankets' weight was enough to overcome him.

"Y-You almost died."

The same voice as before; a man's, timid, warm.

"Don't speak," The woman's voice rang, "Rest."

His mouth wouldn't work.

"Men!" She hissed in irritation, "Must you do everything forbidden you?"

Finally, some sound, "Wait…"

She whirled from the doorway she just strode to.

"I – thank –"

"Thank us by getting well."

"Ja-Jaheria, be gentle." Gentle admonishment froze her in her tracks.

She sighed heavily.

"Are you th-thirsty?"

Aliana's son nodded feebly.

The woman – a half elf – placed a wooden cup in his hands; one second she had been by the door, the next was sat on his bed. Tilting the rim to meet his parched lips, she firmly then forcefully stopped him from spitting; she'd obviously done this before. Instant bitterness struck him; ground bark so foul, roots, the very worst of nature's cures. Shaking away more, he tried to swallow the bitter herbs. Eventually, she relented. His eyelids grew heavy; it was drugged, of course it was…

—

How long had it been? He couldn't tell. In and out of dreams he drifted, the waking dreams the worst. One day, his fever broke. The woman stood by his bed.

"You were poisoned," she informed him calmly. "Now rest."

He shook his head; it hurt to speak, to think. His head pounded. Trembling uncontrollably, he pointed towards the cup and its sickly herb infusion. For the first time, she smiled.

This time he drank, and deeply. The last few times, his stomach had retched. Instant dizziness overcame him. Her warm, steady hands held his head; finally his vision cleared.

Voiceless concern still held her tawny-brown eyes.

"I – I need – air."

Her look spoke volumes; eventually, she relented. Slumped half over, only her arm prevented him from falling. More than half carrying him, she guided him to the window and its wooden shutters. He inhaled deeply.

It was two more days before he could stand unaided.

—

"How are you f-feeling?" Khalid was his name, he learned.

"Better." His strength was returning more quickly than it should; he was careful not to let it show.

"Where are y-you from?"

He shook his head; pain, real and imaged filled his eyes and the gentle half elf pressed no further.

A lump sat on the end of his bed watching him. A girl Jaheria forbade from disturbing him. Locks could not stop her any more than words did. He became aware of her presence between dreams, but when he came to she was gone. Occasionally he'd catch snippets, the odd exchange outside his door, but never enough to piece into a whole. She smiled, her mouth opened; her jaw stopped. About to pelt him with questions, she cocked her head to one side, scrabbled off the bed, hissed a _shh_ at him, and ran out.

In the brief few seconds he was alone, he allowed himself a private smile. The locket hung openly from his neck; his tunic had been washed and replaced, though not his belt and breeches, and more than once, he had caught carefully concealed looks levelled at it.

One gentle tap later and Gorion entered.


	21. XXI

XXI

Revenge.

He had dreamed about it for so long. It was all he had thought about for the past eighteen years; 'Mama' was his first word. 'Revenge' was his second. Only after he had learned it had Mother taught him others. From her breast, he learned its meaning. 'Betrayal' was another. 'Betrayer'. Gorion, betrayer.

Now he studied the man he had for so long despised. Despised beyond reason, beyond doubt, beyond understanding. Mother made him stare into the scrying bowl for hours. The thief.

He was older now. They both were. Once brown hair turned to grey; now grey wisped, tipped by white. There was still strength in him, and in those aged eyes, pain.

"Child…"

The voice was steady, yet tremors quaked its surface. Gorion looked as one seeing a ghost.

White-rage, molten ice, tempered by Mother's poison, shaped by her hatred, arose within him. Aliana's son remained tight-lipped.

Belting the old man would not have been as effective. The slight recoil was enough; then it was gone. Gorion shook his head slowly, "You are recovering." It was not a question; the Spawn didn't answer. "We will leave this place in two days hence."

Still, he said nothing.

Gorion half turned, sighed, and pushed a crinkled hand through his hair, "Jaheria informs me you will be well enough to travel. I doubt she will be satisfied until you are fully healed. You may journey with us, if you wish."

"Where are you headed?"

Each word was clipped, taut.

"I cannot tell you, for I have not truly decided." A slighter sigh, "Away from here; the roads are no longer safe. Perhaps the Dales, or Waterdeep. The destination may change."

He nodded stiffly.

"You must rest now."

Blankets bound around his chin, he could do no other.

Death wasn't enough. Death was _never_ enough.


	22. XXII

XXII

"Yer a queer fellow…" Imoen cocked her head, "Aren't-cha gonna eat?"

Aliana's son regarded her without comment.

"Gotta keep ya strength up! Breakfast's the most important meal o' the day, or so ol' Gorion says." She wrinkled her nose, then waved the bowl under his, "it's porridge! Steaming, nuts, honey… hey, don't look so glum. Lost ya appetite eh? Well, can't say I blame ya. Those nasty hobgobs are enough ta put anyone off their… hey, whatcha lookin' at?"

He shook his head.

"Welp, can't make ya eat, an' it'd be a shame ta let it go to waste…" Enticingly, she jiggled the wooden bowl, then let her smile drop. "Hey, you all right?"

"Bad dreams," he murmured.

"Oh." Instantly, she perched beside him, the bowl set down, forgotten. "I… get those too, sometimes. Wanna talk?"

"Darkness." Flatly, he related, staring into the aether, "Screams. The dying. Blood. A voice. My own. I can't speak."

Tentatively, she half reached for him and stopped; she swallowed. "I guess those hobgobs really did a number on ya, didn't they?"

Shaking his head, he snapped out of it, and when he looked at her, he wore a smile that did not reach his eyes; only pain and anguish gripped them. Her own widened; she began to shrink back and steeled herself.

"Woah... you, you look scary."

"Have you ever lost anyone?"

She bit her lip, hesitated and shook her head.

"Anyone ever stolen something from you so precious a life cannot repay it?"

"You ain't talkin' about hobgobs…"

His hand cupped her cheek; his stare never wavered.

"Hey now!" Reddening, she shifted her weight, "s-steady."

Then he kissed her lightly. Completely scarlet, Imoen drew back, eyes wide enough to stretch her face. "Wha-what's that for?"

His smile was sad, "For you."

"I dun understand you at all…" Still crimson, she straightened her tunic. Swallowing slightly, she snatched up the porridge bowl, and took a large spoonful.

—

The birds sang and the insects chirped. Viekang screamed, and lightning seemed to strike him out of nowhere; Khalid grabbed his arm and the two disappeared.

Imoen stared at the rippling air, and then back at Aliana's son. Her brow furled, then she glanced down at the arm she held in hers.

Gorion's frown locked on him; he refused to acknowledge it. Jaheira swore loudly, scanned the courtyard, and then marched towards a tree. "Get down from there!" she hissed, glaring up at the branches, "pulling a stunt like that!"

Petrified, a trembling Viekang needed to be gentled down from the tree.

"He wasn't like this before," Imoen muttered, "Maybe he's jealous?" She stared up at her companion. "Hey, whatcha lookin' at?" Tilting her head to one side, she squinted. "I don't see nothing. Oh hells… Mr. G! We got company!"

The Spawn never looked away.

—

"I serve the Flaming Fist…"

"As I already explained, we are on our way to Baldur's Gate…" Jaheria told the guard through gritted teeth, "we are not mercenaries, just simple travellers."

"So, uh," Imoen didn't quite meet his eye, "about earlier…"

Aliana's son waited.

"Uh… if ya get hungry…"

He nodded slowly, then allowed, "My thanks."

"Huh?"

"Earlier."

"Oh!" Understanding dawned, "Oh, so – oh… uh… um…" She glanced away sheepishly, while Jaheria still railed at the stubborn guard. "And the…?"

Deliberately, he avoided Gorion; the sage's eyes found his. Hidden beside Khalid, Viekang stared at Aliana's son in horror. Nothing the stuttering half-elf warrior said could stop the fearful glances.

Imoen shook her head, "Yer all being very queer."

—

That eve, they camped away from the road; the hordes subsided, and the bustle was reduced to a low din. The stream of torchlight flickered steadily, and the sun slowly faded into a cascade of orange-golden-red. Imoen died that night. Amidst the trees, their fire banked, they supped together. None of Viekang's shyness left him, but Imoen's jostling cheered the young man slightly. While Jaheira tended to her charge, checking his brow with firm fingers, she coolly turned his chin this way and that. Finally appeased, she nodded.

Khalid stood first watch, though Gorion did not sleep.

He found the sage amongst the trees, gazing up at the stars. "You remind me of someone I once knew," Gorion began, "someone very dear to me."

The Spawn held his peace.

"I thought… she had returned in you." He shook his head slowly, "A fleeting hope of an old fool."

For several moments, only the breeze between the leaves disturbed the still.

"You are not her. I would know it." He turned towards him, "You are something else."

"You know why I am here."

"Do I?"

The challenge struck him; rooted in his boots, the Spawn hesitated. Finally, he hissed, "I hate you. I've hated you all my life."

"Why? For leaving you? Or for not being your father?"

He took a step back, "For… _her_."

"What happens now, Child?"

"Do not call me that." Fury filling him, he tensed; against the old man's calm, the heat went out of him. "Why didn't you end me?"

"I… can't." Gorion twisted, anguish taking hold. "I can't," he whispered.

Aliana's son understood; after all this time, he at last realised. The strongest hate was born of… love. Betrayer… betrayed… _he_ was the one who had been betrayed. Pivoting, he made to stride into the night.

"Child… what is your name?"

"Archaius." _Chameleon…_

—

"I don't like him," Viekang hissed, "he's here to kill us!"

"Yer all buffleheaded!" Imoen retorted, rolling her eyes, "'Course he ain't! Now lemme sleep!"

"You _must_ believe me!"

"Say I do, what then?"

"If you two children don't hush," Jaheria threatened from her bedroll.

"Now see what you did!" Imoen hissed back, "gettin' lil ol' me into trouble!"

"This – this is for your own good…" Taking a deep breath, Viekang grabbed her arm, and thought of murder. The pair winked out of sight.

"Now where have they gone?" Jaheria growled, "Khalid!"

"Y-yes dear."


	23. XXIII

XXIII

Death roamed. Murder's avatar, malice taken form.

Viekang and Imoen scuffled. "What are ya doing?" She shoved as the two rolled through the grass, "lemme go, ya–!"

"He's going to kill us!"

"No he's _not_!"

"Why are you so sure?"

"He – he's _nice_. He – _kissed_ me!"

Viekang paled; they went into a tree root.

"Ow!" A chorus of the same echoed as Imoen struggled to get up and push Viekang away at the same time. Instead she ended up tumbling, tripping over his feet and hers.

It never should have happened, but it did. Somehow, her dagger slipped out; somehow, as they went down in a heap, sprawled over him, she broke into golden dust. Viekang stared in abject horror; lightning struck, and he vanished.

"It – it was an accident – I did – I didn't mean…"

In his mind, he saw the others; the blood on his hands, her blood. The guilt in his eyes… Khalid's face was white. Sword drawn, he advanced. Gorion's face was thunder; magic flared at his fingertips. Jaheria's eyes were fire, and flame roared at her command. It was too much; the vision drove him further than he had ever jumped before, right into the place he feared the most: his sire's realm. Viekang stood face to face with the Murderer in his dreams. Himself – consumed.

Gripped by chains more powerful than fear, he screamed as the nightmarish avatar approached. Here, in the place of skulls, this plane of night, Murder's Throne stood empty.


	24. XXIV

XXIV

Aliana's son uttered a single syllable. The belt around his waist fell loose, coiling into her hand. In place of a young man stood a woman. There was no rush of lights, just the silent surge of the magic. Gender was a mask she wore, a robe to be changed. Soon she wouldn't need the belt at all. The locket had done its work; Gorion and Mother were reunited at last. Gently, she cleaned the dagger.

There were no innocents, only victims.

— 

Only one more thing remained. She entered the gateway to Murder's Throne. Her ascendancy was at hand.


	25. Epilogue

Epilogue

Troubled he looked up from the viewing pool. "I see… thank you Solar." After a moment's consideration, he studied the ever-patient Solar's star-like eyes. "She was right about one thing."

She waited, her presence gentle.

"You are my guide, my faëry godmother."

Her smile lit the pocketplane more than the rising sun.

"Wait, please." He knew her well enough to know had he hesitated, she would have departed, "I… wish to ask something of you."

"Speak, godchild." Ever-watchful, there was only compassion for him.

"Three things," closing his eyes, he drew himself up, and slowly released a long breath, "Am I as this in all these incarnations? A child to be manipulated without control of their own destiny?"

"You are never weak."

"Then… you are pleased with me?"

"My place is to advise, to guide, not to judge."

"Please, my lady." He would not beg, but bent his neck slightly in acknowledgement of what she was.

"You are a child of prophecy."

In this life, he did not cut her short.

"One I am most pleased to guide."

"When this is all over… will you remain with me?" That was not the question he intended to ask, but somehow his lips formed before he realised what he was asking, "You have always watched over me."

She smiled and he knew she would not answer.

"In these lives, have I ever raised a blade against you?"

"Is that question so important to you, godchild?"

"It would feel like a betrayal."

"We will get to it in time."

The mortal coil awaited; not yet, his mind held on. There was one last thing before he released the quasi-dream; the Solar studied him.

"Will you summon Irenicus for me?"

There was still time to alter this.

"So godchild, you have summoned me from the hells. How wonderfully mad of you."

"Teach me, spirit, and after I ascend, I will relieve you of your torment."

"Indeed? And what would you so desperately know to offer mercy to _me_?"

"Unlock my potential. You were right. I understand that now. The shape of flesh is not important, only the power within." He drew in the longest breath of all, "This place of visions, of might have beens… Sarevok was right, you were right. I am a fledgling godling, unprepared, ill-equipped. My other selves scorn me. I wish to know how to separate a soul from the body."

"To what purpose?" Whatever remained of the scholar within the broken elf reared, curiosity mild but curiosity nevertheless.

"To change what would otherwise be."

"A seer now." Faintest scorn touched his deadened voice.

"I will do all in my power to restore you," Even here, the presence of his tormentor still struck at his innards; such scars did not heal with Irenicus' death, only fade. Fear of that helplessness clouded his nights, the deepest, darkest pit of his being. He stepped closer, "I will petition the elf gods, barter with them. If they refuse, I will wage war on their children."

Irenicus said nothing.

"There is still hope for you. Remember Ellesime's words; 'would that you have used your years to earn your way back'?"

"Do not speak her name!" Momentary pain flickered, lost forgotten anguish flaring.

He persisted, taking another step, "I never wanted this, our conflict. Never wanted any of this. You stole what was mine; I was not you, never like you. I will never be like you. I was created through an act of theft, and now another seeks to steal that monster's throne, as you sought to usurp the Tree." He stood tall, proud, "You _will_ help me stop this."

"Spare me your pathetic judgements."

"No, I have the right. By your own words, I have this right. Here, my power is absolute; here, you will bend to my will, and you _will_ begin the path to redemption. You will aid me in sparing a soul blacker than your own from oblivion, and when I restore your soul to you, you shall no longer be 'Irenicus' but Joneleth."

"I despise you."

"Too bad. Ellesime shall be made to know the full horror of what her mistakes cost, but the monster she created, the monster you embraced, will not have been in vain. The knowledge you learned you will relinquish to me, or I will return you to Ellesime now."

"Your threats–"

"Can you bear her touch? Bear her gaze upon you, stripped of your mask? No, you are as helpless here as I was under you. I ask this out of respect, respect for the power you held. Here time is meaningless. Will you aid me?"

For a long time, Irenicus did not speak. Finally, he allowed, "I will."

"Then let us begin."

He felt the Solar's disapproval.

Two more trials awaited.


End file.
